Roger and Zoltan both turned at Reyn's words.
They'd noticed themselves that he seemed utterly untired, but chalked it up to the "Steel Body" effect, granting incredible endurance, and didn't think much of it.
"Let's try to move faster, no lingering," said Reyn, but he immediately caught the sounds of a large group of night goblins approaching. "I'll take the main fight from here on," he added quickly. "Conserve your strength—only join if needed."
"Master Roger, lend me your steel sword."
Reyn preferred a war hammer, but for quick area clears and maximum speed, a longsword was better.
Without hesitation, Roger handed him "Wolf Fang."
The moment Reyn took the excellent enchanted blade, hundreds of night goblins emerged from the darkness. At the front raced a dozen and a half leaders mounted on tooth-grabbers.
"Follow me," Reyn tossed over his shoulder, stowing his hammer in the dragonhide belt and turning to face the enemy.
A narrow tunnel stretched before them—no wider than two meters, but over twenty long. Reyn positioned himself at the entrance, waiting patiently, not rushing to attack.
Soon the passage was packed with night goblin bodies, like a can of sardines. The air filled with their chaotic shrieks.
Reyn dipped his shoulders slightly. As the first goblins nearly burst out, he charged forward.
Whoosh!
His tall figure, like a locomotive, barreled into the narrow space. Unstoppable force swept everything aside. Sickening crunches of breaking bones mixed with the dying screams of night goblins.
In one surge, Reyn blasted through the entire tunnel, leaving dozens of mangled bodies behind.
Emerging after him, Roger and Zoltan exchanged glances, stunned by the efficiency of his tactic—but equally puzzled.
A Charge like that demanded massive stamina. How long could Reyn keep up that pace?
Out of the tunnel, they saw a battlefield littered with corpses. Most night goblins had been knocked down and trampled; others cleaved in half. Wound edges were blackened, as if seared by fire.
Dozens of surviving goblins scattered, peppering Reyn with arrows from rusty bows.
He ignored them—the arrows simply bounced off his body.
Reyn activated "Wolf Fang's" enchantments. The sword, absorbing spiritual energy, glowed red-hot. Each swing birthed a wide arc of fire, slicing nearby goblins.
Whether common warrior or leader on a tooth-grabber—all fell, bisected by a single strike.
Reyn's figure darted back and forth; crimson sword-flashes gleamed everywhere. In under ten seconds, not a single night goblin stood.
Roger and Zoltan stood frozen in awe.
After slaughtering the foes, Reyn oriented himself and pressed on, but noticed his companions lagging.
"What's up?" he turned, seeing their stunned faces.
"You never stop surprising us," Roger approached and quietly reminded him: "But no matter your endurance, you can't spend it so recklessly. Otherwise, we won't get far."
Zoltan nodded in agreement.
Reyn just smirked, opting not to explain.
Annihilating so many night goblins, he'd absorbed their souls for nearly ten energy charge units—spending less than five. His reserves had even grown. Fighting like this, fatigue wasn't a worry.
They hadn't gone a hundred meters before a new wave of goblins surrounded them.
This group featured an odd type—not in leather armor, but woven robes. Noticeably older than the rest, clutching a curved wooden staff, he clearly wielded magic.
"Careful—that's a night goblin shaman!" Zoltan exclaimed.
Shamans, who called on nature's forces, existed among most sentient races except humans. For primitives like night goblins, a shaman was a huge rarity.
A tight ring of tooth-grabber riders guarded the shaman, signaling his high tribal status.
Reyn quickly assessed the foe with his Soul Eye. The shaman knew just three spells: "Bloodthirst," "Healing," and "Lightning Arrow"—none above second circle.
The shaman raised his staff and cast "Bloodthirst." Surrounding goblins roared; their muscles bulged, eyes bloodshot. Losing all fear, they charged with savage yells.
Reyn shook his head and met them sword-first.
The fight ended in under half a minute. The shaman couldn't aid his tribe and fell bisected like the rest.
On the shaman's body, Reyn found a crudely drawn map.
By it, the sixth level was partially collapsed like the seventh. But the eighth had a bypass route skirting blocked caves, leading up to the fifth level—or even higher, to the very first!
The news thrilled all three.
Reyn memorized the map quickly, and they pressed on.
Hordes of night goblins threw themselves at them one after another, as if seeking death. Each clash yielded Reyn just a few energy units; progress on his fourth-level Strength crawled painfully slow.
At first Roger thought Reyn wouldn't last, but over time noticed he seemed only fresher, showing no fatigue.
"Monster," Roger muttered inwardly, now accustomed to his companion's freakish abilities.
The whole way, he and Zoltan barely fought—Reyn handled all foes solo.
Despite nonstop battles, Reyn kept his bearings. After butchering countless night goblins, he finally exited another downward tunnel into entirely new space. The caves ended.
Zoltan, following, gawked in amazement.
"We're on the seventh level!" he exclaimed, spotting majestic structures in the distance.
Reyn looked ahead at the dim glow from those buildings. The space swarmed with night goblins—a glance counted thousands at least. All surged toward them, filling the vast cave with chaos and deafening cries.
Even Reyn shivered at the sheer numbers.
How long to kill them all?
And that was just one cave. Others held more—tens, even hundreds of thousands!
After a moment's thought, Reyn decisively scrapped the idea of charging his "battery" via goblin genocide.
"We break through straight— no prolonged fights," he told his companions.
Roger and Zoltan nodded grimly.
They'd gone too far; no way back. If Reyn fell, their odds of escaping this hell dropped to zero.
Reyn took a deep breath and charged again.
The trio blazed through one vast cave after another at max speed. Now they saw the night goblins' numbers firsthand—enemies everywhere. The whole underground fortress rivaled a mid-sized city in scale.
After half a day of nonstop running and fighting, Reyn burst onto the eighth level first.
This level once served Ironbeard Clan as a relic vault, with many mines. Terrain grew trickier, goblin numbers thinned, but their strength rose. Tooth-grabber riders and shamans appeared more often.
Per the map, the eighth was central turf for several goblin tribes.
Reyn recalled several paths converged here at a throne-like symbol.
It was unavoidable.
After another long spree of mad slaughter, pressure suddenly eased. Night goblins stopped attacking.
Reyn looked up, realizing they'd entered an unusual cave.
A massive cylindrical space nearly a hundred meters high and fifty wide. The floor was paved with solid stone slabs. Exits flanked both sides. Walls bore countless masterfully carved bas-reliefs and Dwarf runes recounting mythic Dwarf heroes.
"This is the fortress treasury," said Zoltan, scanning the chamber. "Looks like night goblins turned it into their chief's throne room."
Reyn followed his gaze. Against one wall sat a crude throne—roughly hewn stone with a hollowed seat, like a five-year-old's craft. It clashed with the grandeur.
Only the throne remained; no chief in sight.
Behind it loomed a massive stone door over ten meters tall, etched with Dwarf runes. Giant Dwarf statues flanked it.
"The treasury's behind that door?" Reyn asked.
"Yes," Zoltan nodded. "Shall we peek? If goblins made this a throne room, Dwarf treasures might lie beyond."
Without waiting for Reyn, Roger said:
"Since we're here, of course we check."
He'd gotten no loot yet and hated leaving empty-handed.
Reyn hesitated.
"Isn't this a goblin trap?" But he smirked at his own paranoia. With night goblin wits, if they set traps, they wouldn't charge to senseless death.
He'd studied them well en route—their actions were chaotic, instinct-driven over reason.
Meanwhile, Zoltan inspected the stone door closely.
"Runes are damaged, many erased. The runic lock's dead. We can enter without a spell—just push."
He shoved; it didn't budge a millimeter.
"Together!"
Reyn cast "Dragon Strength" thrice, buffing himself and companions. All three leaned in. The heavy slab ground open slowly with a dull screech, forming a narrow gap.
"What a beast!" Zoltan exhaled, face flushed with effort. Roger fared no better—demon hunters weren't known for strength, even legends. With "Dragon Strength," he barely hit third-level power.
Reyn did the heavy lifting.
En route, his fourth-level Strength had filled over ninety percent, nearing fifth.
Finally, the gap fit a man.
Faint light leaked through. Silence inside.
Confirming no threats, Reyn slipped in first.
A long, wide corridor stretched before him, about a hundred meters. At the end loomed a vast space. No treasures, no traps. All eyes drew to a gigantic circular runic circle etched on the floor.
At its center stood a pedestal like an anvil, bearing a war hammer.
Seeing it, Reyn froze.